


Drown in Your Shame

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bed-Wetting, Blood and Gore, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many symptoms of PSTD.  Knowing that it's perfectly normal doesn't make it any easier for the Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drown in Your Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19458.html?thread=46891778#t46891778): _So we know Bucky is probably going to be very, VERY traumatized. But I want his nightmares to be so vivid and his fear to be so big he one day wets his bed. He didn't want to, but he just couldn't bring himself to wake up and it just happens. Steve and the rest of the team are by his side as soon as he wakes up with a horrible scream and notice that Bucky had an accident, Bucky thinks Steve is going to be furious or that the rest will make fun of him, instead they tell Steve to take Bucky to the bathroom and they get another mattress and a new set of bedding and everyone is very, very supportive._

The Soldier is only weak when he’s sleeping. 

He is—he _was_ —the fist of HYDRA. He was their perfect weapon, save for the single time he wasn’t. 

(Steve said that was all right and Steve is his new handler so the Soldier doesn’t dwell on the failure.) 

He is not vulnerable. He is not _helpless_. He can shoot a target through the eye from over two thousand meters and punch hard enough to snap a spinal column. If it were necessary, he could tear off a target’s ear using just his human hand. 

(It only takes twelve square pounds of pressure.) 

Even now, surrounded by strangers and lacking his standard maintenance, wading through conflicting information—“You don’t have missions now” they tell him, but then they say the objective is to be a person and a friend—he has remained ordered. His body is constantly at alert, stomach spinning and mind racing, but he shows no outward signs of distress. Because he is not distressed. He is not weak. 

Until he’s unconscious. 

In the dreams he is not the Soldier. He is human, sniveling and broken. Where his arm should be, gleaming and deadly and state of the art, is only empty air. He runs through hallways that endlessly loop, no exits or windows, or he claws at his restraints until his nails are broken and bleeding. Sometimes he is stalking his targets, pointing his rifle, and he screams and screams inside his mind as if this is _wrong,_ as if he is not saving the world, but no matter how he screams he cannot keep himself from firing. In other dreams he is tied down, injected and shocked, frozen and tortured. 

(It’s not torture it’s _helping_ and pain is the body’s way of flushing out weakness.) 

The worst dream comes in his second week with the new handlers. It does not feel like a dream—he is back in the room where he was forged, the air heavy with blood and ammonia. There is a bitter, burnt taste in his throat, an after-effect of their drugs. He is strapped down to the chair and the technicians have instruments, sharp and wicked, but their tools do not harm him. The room is full of people, faces he remembers seeing twisted and crying, begging for their lives. Each time a wound should be inflicted on him, it opens on one of their bodies instead. He is shaking, shrieking, hoarse with pleas to end this, but they are breaking and bleeding and the room is flooding with blood, reeking of iron. It is warm and heavy, drowning him. 

The Soldier wakes screaming, the weakness clinging to him even in consciousness. 

It is not the only thing clinging to him. 

(A voice in his mind: “Are you fucking kidding me?”) 

He is not alone. He notices this secondly. Steve is on the bed, the Soldier’s hand in his own, and the Soldier does not hold onto him as if he is a breath of warm air out of the cryo-tank because the Soldier will not disgrace his handler with such frailty. But there are others in the room as well, Steve’s allies. He has forgotten their names. His screaming must have attracted them; he believes he screams very loudly because his doctors used to complain that he gave them headaches. 

He notices firstly that he is wet. 

The Soldier’s pajama pants are soaking, sticking to his skin. The sheets above and below him are equally drenched, and even in the dark of the room the Soldier thinks he can see spots of moisture on the comforter. It is quickly cooling and the scent is faint but it stings like a backhand to the face. 

He waits for Steve to backhand him. 

A flush spreads over his skin, as human and visible and pathetic as the dark splotches on the bedclothes. Steve’s hand is on his shoulder now, trying to draw his focus. It is their standard procedure when he wakes; they want to keep him grounded and assured that he is not with HYDRA. He squirms away. The Soldier knows he is not with HYDRA because HYDRA would already be administering punishment. 

There were some missions that ran longer than a few days, times when the Soldier had to sleep naturally. There were dreams then too, nightmares that never accompanied the cryo-sleep, but HYDRA did not allow him anything without purpose, so they must have been a test. A test he failed repeatedly, waking cold and wet, feeling the blows or hearing the derision of his angry masters. 

(“Are you fucking kidding me?” Commander Rumlow had said and he could _see_ everyone could see because weapons aren’t afforded blankets.) 

Steve is trying to steady him, voice soft. “It’s all right, Bucky. We’ve got you, you’re safe.” He does not sound mad and the Soldier does not understand. He has not just been bad; he has been _weak,_ and made a mess besides. Has Steve not realized yet what the Soldier’s done? 

“Let him up, Steve.” A woman’s voice. He first thinks _mission_ but then _Natasha_. She is pulling back the sheets and everyone can see again and the air and the wet are cold but the Soldier’s face is burning. “Come on, you want to get dried off, don’t you?” 

“It was an accident.” The Soldier does not intend to speak and the words are pathetic and small. 

Weapons do not have accidents. He is already braced for a blow but the Soldier tenses further. They’ll laugh now, just as the other field agents used to. Laughter should not concern him but there is something twisted and heavy burning in the pit of his stomach. 

(Shame shame shame. Drown in your fucking shame.) 

Laughter does not follow. Nor does admonishment. “I know,” Natasha says. She steps back, leaving him to sit, exposed, staring down at his lap as though he can disappear if he’s still and quiet enough. 

“It’s all right, Buck. You couldn’t help it.” Steve stands, his hand reaching for the Soldier’s to guide him up. “Here, let’s get you a shower, okay?” 

One commander—Rumlow?—had pushed him into a shower, left him to attend to himself. He thinks that is the best thing that could happen here and hopes although it’s not his place to hope that no one will laugh until he’s out of earshot. 

But then everyone is speaking. 

“I’ll get you something to change into.” Clint. That one’s name is Clint. The Soldier’s face burns brighter for having forgotten the names of his handlers so easily. “Which drawer are your pajamas in?” 

He stares, uncomprehending. Behind him, Natasha is stripping sheets from the bed. “Bruce, if you could get the baking soda, I’ll clean off the mattress. Not sure how long it’ll take to dry, but—”

“Do you one better,” one of the men—Tony—says. “We’ve got Cap’s old mattress—the one that was too soft? We can switch them out while this one’s drying.” 

“I shall bring it in.” That’s Thor, the Soldier thinks, because Bruce is the one helping Natasha with the bedclothes. “Where might I find it?” 

Steve’s hands are on the Soldier’s shoulders, trying to steer him to the door, but he is immobile, confused. “I don’t understand.” He has behaved as though he’s an invalid or an infant. 

(His mother held the neighbor’s baby: “Oh Bucky, isn’t she precious?”) 

But he’s a weapon. An adult. He is not infirm, just malfunctioning, useless. It reflects poorly on all of them and he ought to be punished. How can they offer to provide for him? How can they stand the sight of him? 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce says. He and Natasha have already stripped the bed. “It’s late, you’ve had a rough night. Just let us take care of you and we can talk in the morning.” 

The Soldier glances down at his soaked clothing. He is very cold now and he wants to change but nothing makes any sense. “But—”

“You had a nightmare.” Tony ruffles his hair and the Soldier shuffles back, heat flaring through him. “Trust me, not even _close_ to the worst that could have happened, all right? At least when you get nightmares, awesomely lethal battle suits don’t attack people.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll explain when it’s daylight, c’mon.” Steve is very gently and carefully but nonetheless forcibly removing the Soldier from the room. The bathroom is within earshot of the bedroom but the Soldier still does not hear laughter. 

“I don’t understand,” he repeats as Steve starts the water in the shower. 

(Weapons aren’t meant to understand but he thinks _Steve_ doesn’t understand as Steve doesn’t treat him as a weapon.) 

“I know. Here, let me help.” Steve slides off the wet and sticking pants before tugging on the relatively dry shirt. The Soldier raises his arms obediently but though he knows the motion, he’s never been dressed or undressed with such care and caution. It’s not unpleasant, just bewildering. “Listen Bucky, I know a lot’s changed for you, but we’ll always be here for you. You’ll never been in trouble for something you can’t help, okay?” 

The shower is warm and soothing but he makes short work of it because he doesn’t deserve the comfort. Something he can’t help: they’ve said it again and again. That he couldn’t help being a weapon. That he can’t help wetting the bed. But he was HYDRA’s most valuable asset and he ought to be able to help it. 

(He was very young and he’d shared the bed with a frail, blond boy whose mother had smiled and said, “I know you couldn’t help it, Bucky, now let’s get you boys a bath.”) 

When he steps out of the shower, Clint has dropped off new clothing and Steve insists on helping the Soldier into it. It’s comforting but he’s been bad and handlers shouldn’t be concerned with their weapon’s emotions. 

The Soldier keeps his eyes on the floor when they step back into the hall, breathing shaky and labored. Steve slings one arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. “Hey, it happens,” he says. “It happened all the time with soldiers back in the war. It’s not something you need to be ashamed of.” 

“Not to me,” the Soldier mutters. Never in the field. His targets would soil themselves sometimes. His targets were weak, cowering. 

“Then this only demonstrates how resilient you are.” Thor is behind them, carrying a mattress. He holds it as if it had the weight of a pillow. “That your mind must elaborate on the terrors you experienced to make you falter. And to have survived such suffering, that the memories carry so profound an impact even now? You have heart, Soldier. You possess incredible strength.” 

Another flush—the Soldier has never been taught how to handle compliments as he’s never received any—but a smile flickers on his face. His last handlers had not allowed pride, but he is beginning to think these companions are not so strict. The Soldier would call it weakness, but his desires to please and to be valued have never burned so brightly. 

They replace the mattress and sheets and put him back to bed, all soft and pleasant words, asking if there’s anything he’d like them to provide. The Soldier shakes his head and for the first time he can remember, natural sleep comes easily.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a paraphrased line from Sarah Kane's [4.48 Psychosis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/4.48_Psychosis). The line (Shame shame shame. Drown in your fucking shame) also appears in the story proper.
> 
> Tony's line about battle suits is in reference to his nightmares from Iron Man 3.


End file.
